Twilight Zone
A recon mission into enemy territory.
“You’re doing what?” the bike tech at Owenhouse had asked, glancing at his watch. “Okay, well, sign the waiver and good luck.”
That’s how my brother acquired his rental bike, which we were now unloading at around 4pm at the Ousel Falls trailhead. At this point, alarm bells should’ve been sounding, but the noise of rushing water must have drowned them out.
The climb up Yellow Mule was longer and steeper than I remembered, and the trail more rutted. The lower section was overgrown, while the upper section was so carved out that we walked our bikes next to the path for several miles. But coming over the last rise into the meadows below Buck Ridge, we were greeted by a herd of several hundred elk grazing peacefully in every direction. “I can’t believe you live here,” Isaac observed. The scene did feel surreal, with wildflowers in full bloom and low clouds blowing across the Madison Range.
We continued chugging uphill over another rise, when I caught four brown blobs out of my peripheral vision. Those aren’t elk. Squinting through a light rain, the shapes came into form: grizzlies, a sow with three cubs. At about that moment, the sky opened into a cold downpour.
Again ignoring our better judgement, we savored the last of our sour gummies and kept pressing. There was something I wanted Isaac to see. Soon, with light fading, we turned onto the descent: fast straightaways, short drops, and quick, snappy turns.
The last part of the trail—though seemingly backcountry—snakes through the heart of the Yellowstone Club, a private, ultrawealthy “community.” Though mostly hidden by berms, an observant biker can catch glimpses of a golf course cut into the side of a mountain and homes the size of Target superstores. It’s a stark juxtaposition to the serenity and wild character of the upper meadows just a few miles away. Isaac, rightfully so, was taken aback. “This is insane,” he commented. I agreed.
Behind closed doors they lobby for land swaps to increase their reach and cut off the public from other areas throughout the state.
Perhaps nowhere else in southwest Montana are threats to wildlife and unspoiled lands clearer than in the mountains above Big Sky. And though the biking is by all standards some of the best around, it wasn’t the reason I’d taken Isaac here. I wanted him to see for himself what was happening.
Encroachments on our public lands and the wild character of the state are piling up. Big-money millionaires, like those in the Yellowstone Club, build castles and roads on otherwise unspoiled vistas, and behind closed doors they lobby for land swaps to increase their reach and cut off the public from other areas throughout the state. Meanwhile, they help elect state and federal representatives who will side with their rapacious interests over those of the common hunter, angler, hiker, or biker.
Their politicians’ voting records speak for themselves. State officials actively vote against acquisitions of new state land and Wildlife Management Areas. They bring forward bills to gut voter-approved habitat funding measures. They pass new laws to ensure their cronies from Texas and Colorado can hunt bull elk on Montana ranches, while residents get in line for a few measly cow tags. Higher up, on the federal level, the politicians stand by idly as environmental review processes are stripped away and clean-water regulations are deleted from the books.
While most of these issues are somewhat obscured from everyday view, the threats they pose are omnipresent, like the houses tucked surreptitiously behind dirt berms. Hidden just out of sight, but nonetheless abominations, and needful of fighting against—for the sake of our outdoor interests, and those of future generations.
Indeed, we have a lot to lose here in southwest Montana, and a lot to be grateful for. This summer, it’s worth reminding ourselves of that when we’re biking in the Madisons, paddling the Gallatin, and trail running in the Bridgers. As Isaac was quick to point out: we sure are lucky to live here, and it’s not something to take for granted—lest the despoilers take it forever.
